


Useless Danger

by DisasterJones



Series: New Beginnings [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Accidental Death, Campaign 02 (Critical Role), Gen, Mind Control, Murder, Swearing, pre-session 0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterJones/pseuds/DisasterJones
Summary: Caleb hears concern in the old woman’s voice, but his anxiety rears up like a stallion, adrenaline heel-kicking him in the chest. He sits up slightly to look over the back end of the cart, meeting the gaze of the tall figure cloaked in fog.





	Useless Danger

It’s the perfect night for a little bit of squiggly business. And Nott had scoped out the place all day just in case the sticky itch struck. She tells herself “just in case,” but that tiny angry whisper says she set herself up on purpose, and she knows it’s right, but……. Oh, if the whisper could see all the pretty shiny things over the windowsill, well, it’d understand better.

Now it’s that time and it’s the perfect time, and she is, indeed, feeling sticky.

It’s a nice house. Like, a _nice_ house. Two story with lots of big windows and fancy curtains coverin all of em. Solid foundation, fresh laid brick, looks like it was just built or’s pretty well kept. That means it’s protected. Means it hasn’t been hit by the floods, and any valuables they got in the basement are still good. Means there’s probably a winter’s store of food down below. Big house like this? Gotta be a family, or worse, some wealthy baron, some fat greedy fuck that don’t give nothin to nobody and what only sees worth in money. The type that deserves a bit of Nott’s ol sticky fingers, if you asks her.

At the front of the house, it’s quiet and dark, but at the back there’s a bit of moving around. Wanting to get a bead on the occupant, Nott carefully pulls herself up onto the windowsill, wrapping her cloak around body to blend into the shadow on the ledge. Her view from the window, what she can make out, seems to be down a hallway, leading to a sitting room of some kind. There’s a single bit of lamplight coming from the room off the hallway, but between the thick blue curtains obscuring most of the window and the low light, it’s hard to make out the details.

Just as her eyes start to focus and make out the gleaming rack of wine bottles in the hall, she hears something shift, and she tucks further into the cover of darkness. Ears pricking up, she holds her breath, pasting her body against the side of the tall window frame.

A figure lumbers about in the room; she can’t make them out, but she can hear their erratic and heavy footfalls. Suddenly, the light extinguishes, and all goes silent. Still noiseless and uncertain, Nott glances back and forth stiffly, working up the courage to check if they’re gone yet.

The urge to run is great, but her urge for the shiny things is so much stronger. Taking a few urgent breaths to pump herself up, Nott reaches her hand out to the latch on the window, bracing herself to peer in - and if the coast is clear - bolt in as quick and quiet as possible.

Her eyes immediately lock on a pair of seafoam green ones, and a deeply unsettling smile.

  
The smile starts to form a word, and she’s already trying to scrabble away, feet slipping from the ledge and tiny frame slamming to the ground. But the magic is too quick.

She makes it six paces from the house before everything goes black.

 

White.

 

White light in her face.

And pain. Oh god, white hot pain. The worst pain she’s ever felt.

Like a sun being pressed into her chest. Like a thousand deaths all at once.

There’s a tiny, thready voice that longs for release, but she can’t hear it over her own screeching.

 

What Nott can’t register is the transmutation magic The Master is pouring into her. What Nott can’t register is the onyx and crimson brand he marks her with. What Nott can’t register is the purpose this serves. What Nott can’t register is the concept of freedom anymore.

All Nott knows is pain.

  


 

An eternity passes.

 

  
And then...

It stops.

  
  


Nott’s eyes open for the first time in what feels like years. She’s in a cot with an overstuffed hay pillow in a room with a brick wall and stone ceiling. Eyes widening, she bolts upright to scan the vicinity.

She’s in a cell. Of course she’s in a cell.

She pats down her sides and her legs, noting the removal of her armor and weapons. She scratches anxiously at her legs and arms, half out of habit, half out of necessity. She’s been put into some kind of dirty tunic that stinks of shit, with a dingy bit of rope for a belt. In the corner of her cell, there’s a chamber pot big enough for her to climb in, and beside that is what was supposed to be her rations. What’s left of them anyway. Just outside the bars, a mouse lay fat and happy, sleeping near the hay.

“Must’ve had his fill then,” she murmurs bitterly. “At least he left a scrap for me.”

Nott kneels down to the platter, wiping up the remnants of mash with her fingertip and plucking it in her mouth. Immediately, she withdraws her finger, her face scrunching and mouth turning sour. Something’s off… with the…

Her vision begins to swim and she gets a familiar feeling before the world goes dark again.

* * *

 

_No going back now, Widogast._

  
The towering inferno belches smoke and ash behind Caleb as he sprints down the back alleyway, his body so much heavier than usual. His ears ring and his head throbs, but he can’t bring himself to stop running, can’t let himself get caught now.

 _  
This is not what I wanted_ , he pleads silently, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. Against his better judgement, he swivels his head to catch one last fleeting glance at the carnage. Anguished screams and desperate cries pierce the roaring crackle of the blaze as he disappears into the night. His heart, so crumpled and broken already, shatters once more. Tiny shards of useless danger.

  
A lone frantic bell sounds somewhere in the center of town, followed quickly by the aggressive marching footsteps of what Caleb can only assume to be the town’s guardsmen. The thought comes to him to summon Frumpkin for an extra pair of eyes. He snaps his fingers. An image of Frumpkin’s charred fur and melted whiskers pierces his mind, nearly dropping him to his knees.

It’s a silly thing perhaps, to weep for your magical, resummonable familiar. But what a silly thing love for a pet can be. No matter how impermanent he is. What a silly thing, that animal, jumping into the way of that firebolt.

What a silly man he was, for returning fire. What a silly little man he was for letting his anger wreak such havoc. Silly.

After a few tearful moments tucked against the side of a tavern, Caleb makes his way quietly down the street in the opposite direction of the burning academy. Careful not to make eye contact, he only encounters a few people, relatively disinterested in his presence. As he walks, he notes that he seems to be the only person not walking in the direction of the disaster. That is, until he sees a figure standing in the middle of the thoroughfare, a gentle rolling fog sweeping in at the ankles.

Wary, Caleb’s steps slow a bit. Eyes flitting back and forth quickly, he catches sight of a carriage just around the corner, horse already drawn up and prepared. A stocky man in his twilight years stands at the door to the adjacent abode, yelling inside for his wife to hurry along. He seems in a bit of a panic. _Ich auch_ , Caleb empathizes with the elder to himself.

He keeps an eye on the figure down the way as he approaches the cart, sneaking glimpses over his shoulder at the fellow. Apparently frazzled, the man heads inside, shouting something that Caleb can’t distinguish, but it doesn’t matter - this is the window he was looking for. He dashes for the back of the cart, hoisting himself up onto the wooden slats and shoving underneath the hay covering.

He regrets his decision immediately, his arms and torso pressing firmly into a rather wet and foul smelling spot of something he doesn’t want to think about, but can likely accurately guess. But he’s here now, and he’s safe until the owners reach another town, or find him and submit him to the authorities. Not an ideal outcome, and not one he’d actually had a moment to process until now.

Curiosity about the figure strikes him, and he decides to take a look and see if it’s still there. Turning around in the muck proves difficult but not impossible, and he manages to keep himself hidden well enough. Waiting a brief moment to listen for the owners of the cart, it seems like the coast is clear. Caleb pokes his head up briefly, looking at the spot the figure once stood. But it’s empty now. Completely free of any threatening strangers or rolling fog, he’d never have known they were there had he not seen it just moments ago..

A confusing mix of emotion settles in Caleb as he resituates himself back into the cart under the hay. Relief at not being found, relief but also fear at the sudden disappearance of the ominous figure, anxiety about the future of the town, depression about his beloved Frumpkin, and maybe something like hope, but he dare not speak its name. The throbbing in his skull is just as strong as ever. But... he’s alive, he _escaped_. He’ll take little victories where he can get them.

The cart shakes around him, signaling the beginning of the journey to wherever the Grandfather and Grandmother are headed. The axle groans under the weight of the two up front and their secret stowaway, but the trusty steed heading the outfit is a sturdy one, and they begin making their way through to the outskirts of town without trouble. A few bumps as the wheels skip rocks and find divots in the dirt road, but an otherwise uneventful trip to the edge of the city.

Caleb finds himself daydreaming about where to find the gold to get his materials so he can bring back Frumpkin when something catches his attention. The sky… Wasn’t it quite a bit lighter just a moment ago?

  
“Ho there!” shouts the old man from above the hay. Caleb peers out through the fibers and sees him addressing someone ahead.

“Now what does this young thing think they’re doing just standing in the road, poor thing could catch her death out here.”  


Caleb hears concern in the old woman’s voice, but his anxiety rears up like a stallion, adrenaline heel-kicking him in the chest. He sits up slightly to look over the back end of the cart, meeting the gaze of the tall figure cloaked in fog.

  
“Dear, you shou-hrK”

  
A horrible gurgling noise punctuates her feather soft voice, and the distinct thud of her corpse shakes Caleb’s senses, like a million bolts of lightning overloading every extremity.

Something primal surges within him and escapes his control.

Launching out of the hay and drawing a wand from his robes, he summons three, then five, then seven deep purple shocks of light. They swirl at the tip, slow and wide at first, then grow quicker and brighter in a frantic dance that sharpens them into spears.

With a furious howl, he thrusts his arm in a sideways arc, sending three spears of lavender light arcing through the air at the smaller attacker behind, four more swimming along the ground like radiant snakes toward the mysterious form ahead.

Suddenly, the wand in his hand flares with heat, prompting him to release it as it crumbles to ash and cinders. He swears under his breath and flexes his fingers tentatively, testing the feeling. A bit singed, but no worse for wear.

A soft baritone chuckle rumbles through the base of Caleb’s skull, paralyzing him. He watches helplessly as the angry bolts of magic bounce away uselessly, unable to affect a physical form. Behind him, he hears a series of impacts and grunts, and he prays it was the magic missiles hitting their other attacker. Sense finally hits him hard enough to get him to turn, just in time to see a pair of stark yellow eyes and a terrifying cheshire smile before being struck over the head, losing consciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13692828)


End file.
